Every Friday. It happened every Friday. I was upstairs when it started. The murmurs of my parents’ voices didn’t usually draw me in, but on Fridays, it always seemed louder, angrier, occasionally fluctuating to a pitch where the voices became too loud to hear. Whenever the voices started to get louder, I’d start my routine. I would always wait for a loud exchange, and then slither into the next room. I would brace my spine against the squishy back of the lowered bed, and then sink down. I would only get a little bit of the fight each weekend.
“Sharon, it is every single week with this,” my father said in a frustrated tone.
“Well, it comes every single week, Harold!” she said, “What do you want me to do? I don’t make these kinds of decisions.”
It was always about the money with them. It really was. My father worked in a factory, probably making minimum wage, and my mother did what she could to scrape something together. She was a woman of the streets as she preferred. I couldn’t judge. I had been careless and got caught by the inspectors. I wasn’t allowed back in the factory. Just another income lost.
“Sharon, listen to me, and listen good. The landlord is coming soon. We’ve pushed off payments for two weeks now.”
“I understand Harold! I’m sick of this. I can’t do much anymore to get customers.”
“Have you looked into selling sell some of the furniture in here? I mean, your mother did give us that coffee table when we got married.”
“Sometimes I wonder. I really do.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“We sold the coffee table nearly a month ago! Haven’t you noticed? You were even the one to suggest it the last time!”
I had always loved that coffee table. The design on the sides of it intrigued me. I would often sketch it on any paper I could get my hands on. Staying inside and drawing was one of my favorite things. It was something that kept me occupied, interested, whatever they call it. It was better than going outside.
I wasn’t much for playing outside because of all the dirt. I would always come home caked in god-knows-what and my mother wasn’t much for wanting to clean it off of me. I don’t blame her. She had to take care of herself before me. I wasn’t helping with money, and she made that perfectly clear many times.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

Three heavy kocks slammed hard against the door.

“There he is...,” my father said. He maneuvered his way to the door amongst the various garb and garbage strewn on the floor. He opened the door and there stood the landlord, angrier than ever.

“We need to talk,” the landlord said fiercely.

I felt my anxiety build up. He had come before. It was never good when he showed up. Jumping up from behind the bed, I scurried away to the bedroom. I grabbed my pillow and braced it against my ears. I wished we had never moved.